


Suffocating

by Strange_johnlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Grief, Happy Ending, Johnlock - Freeform, Letters, Love, M/M, Mycroft is an arse, Post-Reichenbach, not dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 06:21:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9165790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strange_johnlock/pseuds/Strange_johnlock
Summary: “I will be away for a few days, holidays in Serbia…”They both smiled hearing the word holiday coming from Mycroft’s mouth.“… so I thought you should have them now.”“Have what now?”“Letters.  From my brother.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> First thing I have written in English, ever.  
> Beta by the wonderful AuntieMabel  
> feedback is very much appreciated

The last time he had seen Mycroft Holmes had been days after the funeral. He did not even remember what they had talked about or where they had met.

So the text had come as quite a shock.

He had avoided things that reminded him of Sherlock. Like take away. Or cabs. Or violin music. And he had ignored Mycroft Holmes with the only thing they had in common dead. He did not want to go see him, thought about fleeing from out of the car every time it stopped at a traffic light, not because he was a coward, just because he did not have the slightest interest in seeing the man who had fed Moriarty information about his younger brother, contributing to Sherlock’s death. There was still so much anger in him, even after 2 years, so much regret about the things that had been left unsaid, unfelt. Both lingered underneath his skin and he knew they both came up to the surface way too often. He didn’t even try to control them anymore, losing most of his friends in the process.

 

“You are way too lonely, John Watson,” he thought. “,and you don’t even care.”

The car stopped in front of Mycroft’s house and Anthea and John stepped out of it in a strange synchronicity. Neither the house nor Mycroft had changed since the last time he had been here. Strange how the world could stay the same when his world had dissolved into nothing, the gist of his life gone.

“John,” the elder Holmes looked at him without any emotion, not that he would have expected it. Mycroft had not even shown any sign of grief at the funeral. The ice man.

“Mycroft,” he answered. “Sit down, please. I have got something for you.”

John raised his eyebrows. “I thought we were meeting up for Friday tea like every week.”

“I see. You are clinging to what is left of your humor, John.”

“That's more than you will ever have.” John sat down, just now noticing the box on the desk in front of him. It had his name written on it, Anthea’s handwriting, probably.

“I will be away for a few days, holidays in Serbia…”

They both smiled hearing the word holiday coming from Mycroft’s mouth.

“… so I thought you should have them now.”

“Have what now?”

“Letters. From my brother.”

John leaned back in his chair. Letters from Sherlock’s childhood? His adolescence? Why should he have those? To break his heart once more? Not intentional of course, because Mycroft Holmes did not know how to break a heart as he did not own one himself. Mycroft handed John one of the envelopes. Anthea had written a one on it with a black pen.

“You will have a lot of questions which my brother will be sure to answer as you read on. I will return to London as soon as my holidays allow me to. I would appreciate if you would still be here when I come back. There is a room for you upstairs and Anthea will give you everything you need, within reason of course.”

Mycroft faked a smile, took his jacket and left before John could even process what was going on.

“Dear god, those Holmes brothers will be the death of me,” he growled. His hands were shaking when he opened the envelope and got the letter out. He unfolded the paper and hand to look away for a few moments when he noticed Sherlock’s handwriting.

Dear John were the only words he had identified in the short moment of reading. For him. Letters for him. From Sherlock.

 

_Dear John,_

_This is probably the most ridiculous letter ever written, even more so because a rational man like me is writing it. And because it is a letter of course. No one writes letters anymore, but they are the safest way of communicating in a situation like this (if there has ever been a situation like this before. I doubt that, immensely). I will talk to you about the details of what has happened when I return to you, which will hopefully be very soon (people are even more annoying to me when you are not by my side). What you have to know is that I did it to save your life and Mrs. Hudson’s life and Gavin’s. Moriarty told me he would kill the three of you. I could not let that happen. So I had to die. My brother and I have discussed including you in the plan of faking my death. We agreed on not doing so. I could convince him that I would tell you about my still being alive the day after the funeral the latest. I know that you are one for sentiment and you will probably describe what you feel as a broken heart after the death of your best friend ( I would have never expected to be someone’s best friend but I have deduced that is what I am to you). So, no broken heart, please. I am not dead. I will return to you as soon as I have dissolved Moriarty’s network._

_Sherlock Holmes_

 

 

 

 

John let the letter glide out from between his fingers. Not dead. Not. Dead. Very much alive. Sherlock Holmes jumped off a rooftop and survived. He had been alive for the last two years. All the weeks and months John had grieved for him, Sherlock Holmes had still walked the earth, probably solved murders somewhere, anywhere in this world. John did not know whether to laugh or to cry.

Then a very cruel thought crossed his mind. He picked the letter back up. The date. The day of the funeral. It dawned on John right in this moment. Sherlock had faked his death to defeat Moriarty and he had tried to tell John that via this letter, that Mycroft had given him only minutes ago and with that two years too late. It was because of Mycroft that John had suffered for so long. Mycroft was a lucky bastard being on the way to Serbia and not in the same room with John right now.

“I will strangle you, Mycroft Holmes,” John growled and a vase flew across the room and hit the wall. John pressed the piece of paper to his chest in an attempt to order his thoughts and emotions. He felt too much and in the same moment nothing at all. He thought of the many ways he could kill Mycroft, the life Sherlock had led in the last two years and the future that was to follow and it was way too much at once.

“Get it together, Watson,” he appealed to the soldier. Then, with a strength he did not know he had, John picked the second letter out of the box. Sherlock had written it two weeks later.

 

_Dear John,_

_I figured you have by now recovered from the shock that my first letter must have been to you. I cannot tell you where I am now, the fewer people know the better. Just know that I am fine, even though this place is not as pleasant as Baker Street is and the people are not you. I have just realised how used I am to having you around me, but I am sure it will only take days for me to get used to being alone again. You make my life much easier, but I am not sentimental enough to miss you (I assume that is not what you wanted to hear, so I advise you not to miss me as well. Sentiment only makes things more complicated). I have been alone before I met you and I will be fine without you now. You have been alone before you met me and you will find another person to look after (even though I doubt that you will get a hold off another genius), people like you and you have an ability to include yourself in their lives easily. You should be aware of the fact that I am going to remove whomever you choose to befriend in the time I am gone as soon as I return, so do not get too attached. Sherlock Holmes John smiled and opened another letter. Dear John, Three months in exile and I have made a lot of progress in dissolving Moriarty’s network. I had to do things no one should be forced to do, but I will do everything to destroy this man, this spider. I wish you could answer my letters (even though I doubt that you would have anything helpful or constructive to say. Your answers would consist of sentiment only), but it is dangerous enough for me to write you. No one can know that I am still alive (Except from Mycroft, Molly Hooper and a few members of my homeless network of course. You should probably talk to Molly, my brother won’t be any support, especially not the emotional kind of support you need.) So, I will write to you as often as I can and I will deduce your answers. Some facts might shock you, my friend. I am capable of feeding myself, I even sleep sometimes without you reminding me constantly (The voice in my head that reminds me of such basic bodily needs sounds a lot like yours though)._

_Sherlock Holmes_

 

 

John took a sip of the tea that Anthea had brought him and opened another letter.

 

_Dear John,_

_I have had a lot of trouble adapting to the humidity here (Yes, a tropical state, John). Being undercover gets a lot harder when you don’t know when you can return home. I am sure that it would feel much more like a home here if you were here (Yes, sentiment. That is how far I have come now, John, in only four months since my last letter). People here do not know at all how to make tea. And they know even less about tobacco ash than you do (Which I thought was impossible). The worst thing is that I cannot be myself around them and the nice person I pretend to be gets on my nerves constantly (And I had to grow a beard, it looks ridiculous? What do you think about beards? You would be the person to think about growing one. Don’t!)_

John's hand absently scratched over his moustache. He stood up and Anthea guided him to the room that Mycroft provided for him. John took the box with him and settled down on the bed. He would need to take a bath later in the evening and he would probably shave. Sherlock was right. The moustache looked horrible on him.

_I have resumed smoking and I only tell you this because you can’t do anything about it from where you are. And nicotine patches are not easy to get a hold of. So smoking it is. How is Mrs. Hudson coping? I think it is hard on her, she was very fond of me, but she is a strong woman who has dealt with worse things in her life (That husband of hers was an absolute arsehole). Have you told her? I advise you not to. The fewer people who know… It will be quite a surprise for her when I return to London. I appreciate the rain and clouded skies much more than I did seven months ago. Know that you are missed._

_Sherlock Holmes_

 

John cried a little and opened another letter. He didn’t read it. He took a shower and shaved. He shaved for Sherlock Holmes. He cried a little more. Then he went to bed, the letters around and underneath him. He had to keep them close, he felt vulnerable without them. He was too exhausted to read another one. He woke up early and he felt like he had not slept at all. It took a while to find the fourth letter. John ignored Anthea and the breakfast she brought and began to read.

 

_Dear John,_

_Tattoos hurt lot less than I thought (still, I can’t recommend getting a gang sign tattooed to anyone who is not certain that he or she will be part of that gang for life). I might get more when I am bored. I had to sell my violin for much less than it is worth to be able to afford food. I feel like a part of me is missing now. Even at the other end of the world I was still able to play your favorite songs when I missed you too much. ( I won’t even find excuses for my sentiment anymore). I smoke way too much and I have to resist the urge to use harder drugs then nicotine to numb myself. Then I remind myself that I am already numb and only the warmth of your friendship could make me feel better. You would probably get along with the people here, they have a sense of brotherhood that comes close to that of soldiers. I am imaging you being with me a lot. Not only do you make my life easier and support me on my cases, I laugh a lot more with you around. My humor is not much appreciated where I am right now. (You must be a sick and twisted individual to like it) I will return to 221B and to you, John. Soon, hopefully._

_Sherlock Holmes_

 

John cursed Mycroft Holmes and opened another letter.

 

_Dear John,_

_I killed a man today. I did a lot of things to destroy Moriarty, but being forced to kill took its toll on me. I am not as strong as you are. I wish I was. I wish I had a gun instead of a knife. Knives make killing more personal and affect the killer more. One can distance himself better after shooting someone. Please, force Mycroft to transfer a letter from you to me. I need something of yours as a comfort (God, I sound so desperate. Don’t tell anyone.) Force him. He likes cake; it makes him more open to compromise. I need something, anything from you. You are essential to my happiness and it makes me hate you._

_Sherlock Holmes_

 

John whispered, “I love you, Sherlock Holmes,” and opened another letter.

 

_Dear John,_

_I am getting closer and closer to the end of this case and it gets more difficult and more dangerous with every day. I suspect Mycroft either kept my last letter from you or he took your letter and did not transfer it to me. I know you would never deliberately hurt me by denying my wish. I have been away for over a year and London and you are all that is left on my mind (in the few moments that I can afford not to think about Moriarty’s men, so mostly when I am asleep). Isn’t it interesting that I have traveled most of the world by now and you are still my best and only friend? There is no man like you, John Watson. I would have never thought that we would end up to be more than just flat mates (Well, actually I knew it from the second you shot the cabbie to save my life. I am genius after all. And you are irreplaceable to me). ~~I think about your lips a lot. Do you realise that you have extraordinary lips? And eyes. Someone should take pen and paper away from me. Not only have I found myself being sentimental, I am longing to be with you again.~~ I got another tattoo, a violin on my forearm to cover up the gang sign after I left. Drugs are off the table now. I am in a critical phase of the case and I need to put everything I have into it. I probably won’t be able to send letters anymore. Take care of yourself. _

_Yours_

_Sherlock Holmes_

 

 

John got up from the bed and opened the small window. The cold air filled his lungs. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. And he realised that he was in fact a strong person, because most people would not have been able to cope with that amount of emotion. And he realised that he would never find someone who could understand him, as no one had to live through a situation like this before. Ever. Not even twenty four hours ago he had been convinced that his best friend was dead, only to realise that he was alive and coming back to him. John remembered thinking that he could never love someone as much as he loved Sherlock and the letters proved to him that Sherlock felt the same.

It had taken the detective quite some time to acknowledge this fact, but John was aware of the process that had taken place in Sherlock’s head and that was translated into every letter. Not a process of falling in love, a process of realizing that he had been in love all along.

One letter left. John picked it up and returned to the window.

 

_Dear John,_

_I doubt I will survive this. Serbia is the last and most difficult part of the case and the last piece to the puzzle that is destroying Moriarty. I am by now convinced that Mycroft has kept my letters from you. You would have found a way to contact me. Maybe it is better this way, so you do not have to lose me twice. I know you will never read this, so I can now be even more open than before. I love you, John Watson. In the romantic meaning of that word, not only the way one would love a friend. I love you and if I ever return to you I will kiss you until we both suffocate. I promise._

_Sherlock Holmes_

 

 

John pressed the letter to his heart and his forehead to the cold glass. He stood there with a mind utterly blank for what seemed to be hours until he returned to the bed and fell asleep. He dreamed of suffocating kisses and woke up with a smile on his face.

He found Anthea in Mycroft’s office pretending to work. John knew that her only job was to keep an eye on him. “Mycroft traveled to Serbia to get Sherlock, am I right?” Anthea nodded slowly. “I will return to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes will join me there as soon as he has arrived in London. Mycroft Holmes will not come close to me for the next two weeks at the least or I will strangle him.” He used his soldier voice, the one that left no choice. Anthea did not try to talk back. John knew Mycroft would have preferred to keep him here but if there was a person immune to Mycroft’s will it was John.

 

The next few days were spend in anticipation. Time went by sluggishly slow and John picked up his phone to call Mycroft more than once. He didn’t. The letters kept him company.

He tried to get 221B back to the way it had been the day Sherlock left. He would move back here as soon as possible, Mrs Hudson had been delighted to have him back, bringing him tea and biscuits as if the last two years hadn’t happened. He had given the first letter to her and told her how Mycroft had kept them from him. She had threatened to strangle the older Holmes and John had laughed, for the first time in forever.

He made Sherlock's favorite meal and tea.

The cup slipped from his fingers when he heard footsteps on the stairs.

It shattered on the floor the same moment the door swung opened.

Sherlock looked thinner, his hair was longer and a five o'clock shadow spread around his mouth and cheeks. John was not able to move even though it was the thing he wanted most in this world.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was filled with emotion.

John fought back tears. _“He is there. Right there next to you. Go and hug him.”_

He couldn’t.

“John.”, Sherlock sounded desperate now.

“You promised me suffocating kisses.” John smiled and he felt the weight that fell off Sherlock's shoulders.

The detective closed the gap between them and John breathed in his scent. Sherlock cupped John’s face and John’s body shuddered with anticipation. The kiss was soft, Sherlocks lips warm and plump underneath his own. The beard felt scratchy on his cheeks and chin, but John could not care less. He let his hands stray underneath the coat and his fingers clung into the white shirt.

This was what he was made for. He was born with a single purpose: to kiss Sherlock Holmes. . And he would make up for all those years that he had been too scared to.

Sherlock's lips left his, but he stayed close. John watched his eyes flutter open and he realised that those irises were the most beautiful thing in the world, the only competition being the plush lips, the unbelievable hair and the sharp cheekbones.

“You are impossible.” John whispered and pulled Sherlock even closer to himself, one hand now in his hair. “I  missed you.”

The second kiss was hard. They pressed against each other trying to consume whatever came close to their lips and hands. It felt a little bit like suffocating and a lot like love.


End file.
